


An Incredible Waistcoat

by Esteliel



Category: La Comédie Humaine - Honoré de Balzac, Les Chouans | The Chouans - Honoré de Balzac
Genre: Fashionable Goatskin Couture, Incroyables, M/M, POV Outsider
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-01
Updated: 2019-05-01
Packaged: 2020-02-15 18:24:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18675037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Esteliel/pseuds/Esteliel
Summary: “I know how to prove it,” Beau-Pied interrupted, eyes gleaming. “Let’s steal his clothes. If he shows up tomorrow morning in the commander’s old shirt, we’ll know how he spent the night.”What's a Parisian dandy like Corentin to do when he loses his clothes in the land of goatskins?





	An Incredible Waistcoat

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Balzac Chat for all the goat fashion inspiration anyone could possibly need. Plot stolen from Kainosite who really needs to stop giving me ideas. <3

“I think the commander is sweet on him,” Merle said, nudging Gérard, who had been watching the verdant valley spread behind them, which just now was illuminated in a most picturesque way by the last rays of the setting sun.

“Hmm? Who?”

“Our little _incroyable_.” Merle smirked, tilting his head towards where a man in truly incredibly tight-fitting trousers of yellow buckskin leather, a coat of fiery cinnamon and a waistcoat of blazing scarlet was putting on a display that outshone the sun’s best efforts as it sank towards the horizon.

“ _Him_? Never.”

Merle’s smile widened knowingly at the way Gérard had stiffened, his jaw set tightly as his eyes followed the path the little dandy cut through the plain where Commander Hulot’s half-brigade had made camp for the night.

“I don’t know... If you find a way to keep that mouth of his busy, he’d be—”

“I don’t want to hear it.” Gérard’s chin rose proudly. “And you shouldn’t talk so about the commander.”

“Eh, better to fuck the little dandy than to get fucked by the Chouans—right, Beau-Pied?”

The young sergeant chuckled. “I know where I’d rather sheathe my sword tonight.”

“Pity the commander was faster than you.”

Gérard crossed his arms and turned away from them, but Gudin, who’d only recently joined them together with the conscripts from Fougères they’d so abruptly lost again, nudged Merle’s side.

“He’s going to the commander’s tent, do you see?”

“Doesn’t prove anything,” Gérard said with a huff.

Merle couldn’t resist stoking that jealousy further. “You really think he’s wearing those trousers to impress the dirty lot of you? He’s preening like a peacock every time the commander looks at him.”

“The commander thinks he looks ridiculous.”

“Well, all he has to do is take off all that finery if he doesn’t like the look of it. Why do you think their _talks_ last so long?”

“You’re ridiculous—”

“I know how to prove it,” Beau-Pied interrupted, eyes gleaming. “Let’s steal his clothes. If he shows up tomorrow morning in the commander’s old shirt, we’ll know how he spent the night.”

“Deal,” Merle said merrily. “You in, Gérard?”

Gérard, as expected, turned away with a frown. Merle’s smile widened.

There was their first secret uncovered already.

***

It was the middle of the night when Beau-Pied appeared from the shadows surrounding the little fire where Merle kept watch.

He was looking very sober, and for a moment Merle felt horror rise up in him at the thought that commander Hulot had surprised Beau-Pied and found out all about their little bet.

Then Beau-Pied’s woeful look turned into the widest grin Merle had ever seen on his face. From behind his back, his arms came forward at last, waving the garish orange coat and the blindingly red waistcoat with as much relish as if it were a captured enemy flag.

“So he was...?” Merle prompted.

Beau-Pied didn’t have to be asked twice. He accepted the flask of wine someone quickly produced, took a large gulp, and then declared, “Right there in the commander’s tent, just as you said, captain.”

“You didn’t get his trousers?” someone else asked, and Beau-Pied snickered.

“Couldn’t. These were dropped close to the entrance. The trousers they’d left right by the commander’s bed.”

Gudin whistled appreciatively.

“Did you hear anything?”

“What did they do?”

“Did he finally silence that spy’s tongue?” the men at the fire called out in mirth, until Merle felt the need to hush them.

“Let’s not disturb the commander when he’s so obviously busy.”

And it wasn’t like Hulot didn’t deserve some pleasant diversion after all the trouble the Chouans had given them so far—not to speak of the annoyance of the carriage and the spy in their midst.

Gérard would surely have suited just as well—he didn’t think the commander would have pushed him out of his bed, had Gérard offered. But since Gérard apparently preferred sighing over him from afar like a young girl, he only had himself to blame.

“Busy indeed.” Beau-Pied winked. “From what I could see, the commander’s sword was making short work of our fine dandy. Attacking his defenses from the rear, you might say, most vigorously. Buckskin trousers or no, I don’t think you’ll see him seated on his horse tomorrow.”

“He can come and sit on my lap; I’ll make him feel better,” someone called out, and then the bottle started to make its round again while the men came up with rowdier suggestions by the minute.

Merle kept an eye on the horizon; then, when the bottle was empty, he called the men to order.

“Someone hide those clothes,” he said. “Somewhere where they won’t be found.”

Beau-Pied smirked. “Leave it to me, captain. There’s a hollow space in a willow by the northern end of the camp. I’ll stuff it in there. If the commander finds it, well—could have been anyone. And you lot keep quiet about this.”

“We’re all in for it if the commander finds out,” Merle pointed out, staring at his co-conspirators until they one after the other nodded soberly.

“Good. Now all we’ve got to do is wait.”

***

Commander Hulot rose with the sun, as was his wont. The spy, Merle assumed, would have snuck out before him while the camp was still dark and the men asleep, but he had kept an eye on the commander’s tent, and no one had left.

Of course, given that this Corentin was supposed to be of some use for their mission here in La Vendée, it was possible that he was sharp enough to grasp their ploy and escape via the back of the commander’s tent to go and sulk in his breeches by his horse. Still, eventually he would have to show himself.

Two hours passed. The men Hulot had sent out to scout ahead had returned with nothing to report, for once, and the camp was getting ready to travel on. Merle was starting to feel anxious—had the foolish dandy run off into the woods to cry about his lost waistcoat and hurled himself straight into the arms of one of those damned Chouans?

Just when he had gathered his courage to admit to the commander what had come to pass, there was a small commotion at the other side of the camp. Curiously, Merle rose. There were soldiers in his way, ready to travel on; he craned his head, but still couldn’t make out much.

Then, coming from his right, he heard the commander’s unmistakable voice.

“God’s thunder! What have you done now?”

Before Merle’s eyes, the soldiers parted, a murmur running through the crowd. And then, coming straight towards him, the small figure of their Parisian dandy appeared—still wearing his skin-tight buckskin trousers and his Suwaroff boots, golden corkscrew ringlets framing a narrow face that might have been called pretty, if it had not been for the pointy nose and the narrow eyes that gave him something of the quick, sharp alertness of a weasel.

Most importantly, he was coming towards Merle fully dressed—not slinking shamefacedly among them in one of the commander’s old shirts, but wearing another of his garish waistcoats and a coat above it. Surprisingly, the colors were a subdued combination of white, brown and green, despite the waistcoat’s shocking pattern, which reminded Merle of the hide of a cow.

A minute later, Corentin stopped in front of him, and Merle gaped.

It wasn’t a waistcoat of strangely patterned white-brown velvet Corentin was wearing, which was what he had at first assumed. The waistcoat was made of an unmistakable local material which they had all come to know rather too well for their liking.

Fuzzy, long hair in patches of brown and white had been brushed until it shone in the morning light, hugging the lean body of the spy. This waistcoat of goatskin, for it could be nothing else, was adorned with two watch-chains, and accompanied by an enormous muslin cravat tied with elaborate folds all the way up to his chin.

The coat he wore over his goatskin was of a muted green, although somewhat large on his frame, as if it had come from a man of a different stature. It looked strangely unsettling on him, used as they were by now to the fiery shades of red and orange that screamed for attention like a lovesick peacock.

The commander’s old coat, Merle realized all of a sudden, turned inside out. There was their proof then.

“Morning, Captain Merle,” Corentin said, his pretty, pointy nose held high.

Merle understood all of a sudden why the commander might take delight in wiping that smug smile off his face in the privacy of his tent.

“That is the most fashionable fucking Chouan I’ve seen in my life,” Beau-Pied said devoutly.

Corentin gave him a smug little smile, twirling a little cane of freshly cut wood.

He put one foot forward, showing off the polished Suwaroff boots and the elegant arch of his calves, then twisted his upper body a little to watch Hulot coming closer with a thunderous expression—not-so-accidentally, Merle realized, showing off the pretty curve of his tight little ass in that cursed yellow buckskin at the same time.

“Fuck,” Beau-Pied said in admiration, then cleared his throat when he realized that Hulot was in earshot. “I mean, ah—that’s a fine waistcoat you have there, citizen. From your Paris tailor, I assume?”

“I’m afraid I cannot share the secrets of my tailor with you,” Corentin said prettily, his brows arching as he gave Merle a cold look, as if he knew well enough who had been the instigator of all this trouble. “One wouldn’t want to find oneself surrounded by men wearing the same design by accident, wouldn’t you agree?”

Gudin snickered. “Not much of a danger out here.”

“And a fine new coat, citizen.” Merle’s smile widened as he looked him up and down. “Though perhaps your tailor was remiss in finishing the fitting.”

Corentin smirked as he hooked his thumb into one of the pockets of his waistcoat, showing off the rather unusual pattern of fuzzy brown and white splotches that now graced his chest.

“Perhaps,” he said ironically. “You are right, captain, I should certainly have a talk with my _tailor_.”

“Now what’s all this?” Hulot demanded when he finally arrived. “Ten thousand thunders! What is that getup? You look like...”

Hulot didn’t finish his sentence, as if he had run out of words that could do justice to the apparition before him.

“Yes. It is rather pleasing, is it not?” Corentin said airily. “Though your captain just reminded me that I need to have a serious talk with my tailor...”

“What the hell happened to your clo—is that _goatskin_?” Hulot demanded incredulously.

“Touch it and find out.” Corentin struck an even more ridiculous pose, as though he were one of the dancers in an opera.

Hulot stared at him for a long moment, his mouth open—and then his eyes narrowed. “Wait a moment,” he said dangerously. “That coat—”

“You should speak to Captain Merle about that. He knows my tailor,” Corentin said, and then hastily escaped.

Hulot’s bushy brows were tightly drawn together as he turned to stare at Merle, who raised his hands.

“I have nothing to do with it, commander,” he said. “Don’t know any tailors out here.”

Hulot clenched his jaw, then abruptly turned away to stalk over to where the returned scouts were awaiting him.

Merle used the chance to hastily send out Beau-Pied to retrieve the hidden clothes—although from the way Corentin was strutting through the crowd, showing off his incredible goat-patterned waistcoat, striking a pose as if by accident that showed off his leather-clad ass to best effect whenever Hulot managed to glance in his direction, Merle doubted that Corentin would want to change back before they set out.

It figured that if you tried to trick a spy, you ended up doing him a favor.

Still... Corentin might have managed to outwit them all today, but there was one thing even he could not do.

Merle allowed himself a smirk of his own when he saw Corentin take up the reins of his horse, and then give the saddle a doubtful look. A moment later, when Hulot gave the sign to start moving, the men between him and Corentin began marching, momentarily obstructing his view.

Once they had made it past him, Merle chuckled. Goatskin or no—Corentin was leading his horse, just as he had predicted. 

And on the other side of the path, Hulot was watching the same sight, his face twisting momentarily into the grimace that served him as a smile before he turned back to oversee their leave-taking.


End file.
